


A Room of His Own

by maryagrawatson



Series: Flatmates [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:25:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4350476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of A Study in Pink, John Watson finally sees his new room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Room of His Own

It's, very, very late when they come into the flat, nearly tripping over their feet with exhaustion after the comedown from the adrenaline rush and too much dim sum. John drops into the red chair, his thigh burning, while Sherlock fumbles with the kettle without even taking off his coat. "How do you take it?" he asks.  
"Just milk. Ta."  
"I'll tidy up in the morning," Sherlock says when he brings their steaming cups into the sitting room.  
"Fine. I'd just like to be able to walk across this room without tripping over anything."  
Sherlock quirks a smile. "You can use the bathroom first. I moved my things aside for you and there's towels on the shelf above the toilet."  
"Ta. God, I'm knackered and I haven't even seen my room yet. Is there even a bed in there?"  
"Yes, and I'm sure Mrs. Hudson put clean sheets on it for you."  
"Florida, huh?"  
"That's a story for another night."  
John takes the last sip of his tea. "And that was a plea to please get myself to bed before you keel over."  
"I think we're going to get along just fine." Sherlock winks.  
John grins in response. "I think so too."  
  
The bathroom is a little cramped and the tub scarred, but the water pressure is decent and the temperature scalding, a vast improvement over his little bedsit. John still doesn't take much time to enjoy it, still too used to quick army showers. He'd put his kit on the left side of the vanity and pulls his toothbrush and paste from it, cleans his teeth, then realises that he can leave the items out, like Sherlock has done on the right side of the vanity. He lives here now. This is home. It's a peculiar feeling.  
  
He pulls on a fresh pair of boxers, a clean tee-shirt, and his dressing gown, then heads down the hall, calling out goodnight to Sherlock. He takes the stairs to the second floor slowly. There's seventeen of them, just like from the entrance to the first floor, and finds himself on a small landing with just one door, slightly ajar, with a beam of light coming from under it. He assumes that the rest of the second floor belongs to 219 or 223. He finds the light switch for the landing and turns it off before stepping into the room.  
  
The first thing he sees is the large bed centred on the wall to the right of the door. It is made up with pillows and a fluffy duvet. He hasn't seen a bed that looks that comfortable in a very, very long time. There are low tables on either side of it, with lamps on them. One of the lamps is on, bathing the room with diffuse lighting. Mrs. Hudson's doing, all of it, surely. He already loves her dearly.  
  
John surveys the small room slowly, taking in the faded wallpaper (violets on a white background, but it's not as feminine as he would have expected), the warm worn wooden floorboards covered by a few area rugs, and directly across from the door are two large windows overlooking Baker Street. The room is right above the lounge downstairs.  
  
There's also a large wardrobe tucked into the corner to the left of the door, with room to hang things and drawers below. He'd taken a peek into Sherlock's room and his is certainly smaller and contains less furniture, but it's just as cozy and welcoming, with the bed the same size. John decides that he likes it very much, even with the trek to the bathroom. He and Sherlock will have their own space as well as the option of sharing the sitting room. He looks forward to the first rainy evening spent by the light of the fire reading in that squashy red chair.  
  
As he falls asleep under sheets smelling of lavender washing powder, John remembers for a fleeting moment that he killed a man tonight. But that is such a small thing compared to coming home for the first time in his life that he falls asleep deeply and does not dream.


End file.
